Be Still My Heart
by moviemom44
Summary: Two hearts, four dozen roses and one silver bullet bring Sam one step closer to healing an old wound, and Dean learns that some burdens can't be shared, even between brothers. My take on what happened immediately before and after the final shot in 'Heart'


_Author's Note: Last year, a very wonderful author named Swellison asked me if I would be interested in submitting a story to a fanzine. Flattered beyond belief, I responded, 'Yes!' and thus began my association with Rooftop Confessions, a Supernatural fanzine published by some extremely talented and highly dedicated fans of the show. This is the first story I have ever written and 'submitted' to anything other than fan fic sites. The editing process was a great, albeit painful, learning experience for me. I cannot thank the editors, Jan and Eve, enough for their wise guidance and warm support as I worked my way through this story, which began as some random musings on my favorite episode, 'Heart", and, with their help, became the story you see here. I have to say that I am rather proud of how it turned out. I hope you all enjoy it. So, without further ado, now that the one-year posting ban on 'zine stories has expired...Here we go..._

Be Still My Heart

by

Moviemom44

"Sam, I'm sorry."

Dean's voice sounded thick and strained.

Sam turned to look at his brother, not even bothering to try to hide the tears streaming down his face.

"No, you're right," he managed. Swallowing the lump in his throat for the tenth time, he added, "_She's_ right."

And she was. Sam knew that much. What he didn't know was how he was going to look into Madison's eyes, the same eyes that had looked into his with such passion, such _trust_, and find the strength to kill her.

She'd asked him to do it, to save her from the monster inside her that she not only couldn't control, but didn't even know existed until the Winchester brothers had come along.

Sam smiled darkly, huffed out a humorless laugh.

"You can't possibly find any of this funny," Dean challenged.

"I was just thinking how Madison didn't even know about any of this until we showed up." With mock excitement, Sam added, "Surprise! You're a vicious killer and I'm here to waste you!"

He swiped at his wet cheeks with the back of his hand. "I mean, wouldn't it be great if just once we were the guys with the gigantic million dollar check instead of the damn death squad?"

"Maybe in our next life," Dean replied quietly.

Sam could see Dean's jaw muscles twitching, the familiar signal that he was trying hard to control his anger. Dean never could stand to see Sam agonizing over anything, let alone a choice as terrible as this one.

"Listen, Sammy, I got this. I'll do it." As usual, Dean offered to take the burden on himself.

"She asked me to."

"You don't have to—"

"Yes, I do." It wasn't until he heard himself say the words out loud that Sam knew he actually could do it – that he _would_ do it.

And in that moment, he had the oddest thought.

"Oh, crap, now I know what Dad meant." He didn't realize he'd voiced the notion until he heard Dean's breathing hitch. He looked up and saw that look on his brother's face, the one that told him this time it was Dean who was reading Sam's mind instead of the other way around.

"About the dog?"

Sam nodded.

"Not that Madison is a dog…" Dean said in guarded tones.

"No! Of course not!" Sam bit off as the fingernail hold he had on his emotions slipped a little further. "It's not even really about a dog, you jerk…"

"I know what it's about," Dean snapped back. "You wanna see?"

Sam watched as Dean reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. He opened it and from one of the inside slots removed a tattered, folded up piece of paper. He unfolded it, very carefully, and handed it to his brother.

There, written in their father's bold scrawl, were the words both men had memorized long ago, but hadn't really understood until today. Three lines quoted from a fictional character named Lazarus Long.

Created by science fiction writer, Robert A. Heinlein, Lazarus was a cross between his Biblical namesake and Casanova. He was an immortal playboy of the highest caliber. Over several millennia, he had bedded more women than Dean had hairs on his head – hell, on his entire body. Sam knew Dean considered ol' Laz one of his personal heroes.

But it wasn't Lazarus' prowess in the sack that had inspired their father to use the character's words to teach life's hardest lesson to his boys; it was his genius IQ and his ability to hit the philosophical nail on the head in the most down-to-earth way imaginable.

_When the time comes – and it does, _the note read, _you must be able to shoot your own dog. Don't farm it out. That doesn't make it nicer; it makes it worse._

Below the quote, John Winchester had written a simple order: "Read this and remember it always."

Sam handed the note back to Dean, who folded it up again and tucked it gently away. Then Sam reached into his own wallet and pulled out his copy. It was handwritten, like Dean's, but there the similarities ended.

"Laminated? Seriously?" Dean posed as he took the neatly preserved missive. "Sheesh, Sammy, it looks like a freakin' library card."

"The one good thing about being the _younger_ brother is that I get to learn from your mistakes," Sam replied.

"What mistakes?" Dean queried, raising one incredulous eyebrow.

As Sam plucked the card from Dean's fingers and put it away, he said matter-of-factly, "Angela Brody."

Both of Dean's eyebrows shot clear up to his hairline at the mention of the high school hottie who Sam had overheard give a then seventeen-year-old Dean Winchester the best news he had ever heard: _I am not pregnant._

Sam saw his brother blanch as the memory of that nerve-wracking week of sleepless nights—and the out-of-date birth control that caused it—came flooding back to him.

"Oh! Yeah, that…uh, well, I guess a sweaty leather wallet can be hell on paper and, um, other stuff," he said.

On some level, Sam recognized the whole nostalgia trip was just a stalling tactic, a way for him to back away from the pain of what he had to do, if only for a few awkward minutes. Dean had been playing along up to now, but his next fumbling comment stopped the charade cold.

"So, speaking of condoms—"

"Dude!" Sam shot back in a menacing whisper. "Do _not_ go there," he commanded, his green eyes flashing with possessive fury. He may have only known Madison a couple of days, but he cared for her in ways he never thought he'd ever care for anyone again after Jessica died. He felt fiercely protective of her—and of what they'd shared. Not just yesterday in her bed, but their whole time together. No way would he ever talk about it, not with anyone, and most especially not his kiss-and-brag-and-don't-spare-the-details brother.

Dean cringed. "Sorry, man, that was stupid of me. I didn't mean—"

"It's OK," Sam cut in. "I know you're just trying to help. If we stand here arguing all day, it's a reason for me not to go in there."

Speaking that awful truth broke Sam out of his safe, warm bubble. His eyes went to the pearl-handled pistol in Dean's hand. He couldn't put it off any longer. He also couldn't stop the tears as he held out his right hand expectantly.

Dean hesitated. Sam insisted.

"Please…"

As he wrapped his fingers around the gun, Sam was glad it hadn't taken more than that one word to convince Dean to give it up. He could hardly breathe, let alone talk. His chest felt like the Impala was parked on it and his heart was beating him to death from the inside out.

"Just wait here," he said, forcing the words out with tremendous effort.

Dean nodded. Then he dropped his gaze to the floor, but not before Sam noticed that his eyes looked just a little too bright. If asked, Dean would chalk it up to the lighting in the room, but Sam knew better. He loved his brother all the more for sparing both of them the embarrassment of a big emotional display.

_Hell, I'm doing enough of that for both of us._

Sam moved slowly toward the living room, but stopped in the doorway. He tried to take a deep breath and failed. His head fell forward and his shoulders sagged as he allowed himself one last moment of weakness.

In that moment, he turned and looked at Dean. He saw his own torment mirrored in his brother's eyes.

Without knowing how he knew, Sam was suddenly sure that time had just turned inside out for Dean and in his eyes it wasn't a twenty-three year old Sam standing in that doorway; it was a scared, heartbroken boy of twelve who'd just made his first kill.

Sam saw how Dean's jaw muscles flinched wildly, as he visibly fought the rage brought on by seeing his younger brother in so much pain. It was so obvious that he wanted to close his eyes and shut out the memories as well as the here and now, but Sam knew Dean wouldn't. He knew his big brother wouldn't be the first to break the connection, no matter how much it hurt to maintain it. And he also knew he needed the strength his brother's steadfast gaze delivered.

It occurred to him that he'd never wanted to hug Dean as much as he wanted to right now—his arms literally ached with the need—but he knew that if he took one step toward him it would be the excuse they both needed to delay the inevitable, so he forced himself to stay put. Unlocking his gaze from Dean's, he felt the loss of contact like a wound as he turned back toward the living room.

For a minute, Sam considered waiting until nightfall, figuring if Madison turned into the werewolf, it might be easier to shoot her. If she were in her wolf form, it would feel more like she was the enemy, like this was just another day on the job.

But that plan had a giant hole in it. She probably wouldn't turn tonight. The moon wouldn't be completely full again for another month, which meant it could be at least three weeks until the lunar cycle would trigger the change in her again.

He couldn't risk that, because he was already half in love with her. It shouldn't have happened and a big part of him felt like he was betraying Jess, or at least her memory, but he still couldn't deny the tender feelings he had for the brave, beautiful girl in the next room.

On leaden legs, he walked over to the couch and sat next to Madison without looking at her. He stared straight ahead, holding the gun in his right hand, resting it on its side on his knee. He remembered sitting there with her watching that soap opera she liked.

"You wanna watch your show?" he asked softly, still casting about for a reason—any reason—to give her more time. An hour, surely he could wait an hour.

"No, thanks." The calm, even tone of her voice made him turn and look at her. Her deep brown eyes were moist, but her expression was almost serene. The trust he saw in her face humbled him. Her bravery broke his heart.

"Maddie—" The strangled, harsh sound was cut short as she leaned over and covered his lips with hers.

"No regrets, Sam," she said as she laid her forehead against his. "Not one. I was doomed before you even got here, but you took this nightmare and made something beautiful out of it. Never forget that."

"I won't. Madison, I won't ever forget you," he pledged as he kissed her eyelids, tasting the tears still clinging to her eyelashes. His left hand cradled her cheek and then slid into her long dark hair, holding her to him as his mouth found hers again. He kept telling himself to stop, to pull away, but he couldn't.

Sam was going under fast, letting desire carry him further and further away. He felt her hands come between them. Dazedly he realized that she was unbuttoning the shirt she was wearing. His heart ran wild. His whole body clenched at the memory of her silky skin, so soft and warm under his hands, his mouth, his hips...

He started to help her with the buttons, desperate to touch her just once more, but when he brought his right hand up he saw he was still holding the gun. Reality rushed back in with all the cruelty of a stormy sea, dashing him on the rocky shore, leaving him bruised and raw—and shamefully aroused.

He moved away quickly and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head and calm his raging body. He heard her say something but couldn't make it out until his breathing slowed to near normal.

"…your shirt. I don't want to get blood on it."

Sam was astounded. She'd seen her last sunrise—her life could literally be measured in minutes—and yet here she was concerned about his stupid shirt. She was truly incredible.

He stood up and turned back to face her as he slid the gun into the back of his belt.

"No, keep it on. It looks way better on you." He managed a weak but sincere smile. "Besides, it's not the shirt I'll miss," he added, hoping she heard what he really meant.

The tenderness in her eyes told him she did. "I'll miss you, too, Sam."

For the first time, he wondered if anyone else would miss her.

"Maddie, what about your family…friends…?"

She shook her head. "There's no one. No family, no close friends. There won't be anybody storming City Hall demanding justice for me," she said without a trace of self-pity.

Sam couldn't speak. He was drowning in the wave of sadness that swamped him. No wonder she seemed willing to go gently into that good night; she was all alone in the world. Until yesterday…

"What was your best day, Maddie?" he asked suddenly, his voice rough.

Momentarily puzzled, she looked at him quizzically. "You mean…ever?"

"Yeah, in your whole life, the best day you can remember," he answered with an almost childish excitement. "Tell me everything. I want to hear every detail."

She stood as she answered him, her eyes glowing with emotion. "It was you, Sam. You were my best day ever."

"Oh, Maddie…" He pulled her to him again and kissed her, tenderly at first and then with a passion that threatened to run away with his control had he not felt her hand brush against the gun stuck in his belt.

She stiffened, but didn't pull away immediately. Instead, she pulled the gun out and moved away just enough that she could hand it to him.

He hesitated, looking at the weapon like it was the vilest thing in creation, before finally taking it from her hand.

"Sam," she said, taking his face in both hands, "Please don't feel guilty about this. You did everything you could and I know you'd keep trying if I asked you to, but—" She leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips before finishing in a tearful whisper. "—it's over. I want it to be over."

She stepped back, her eyes drifting to the gun in Sam's hand and then up to his face. He had to force himself to meet her gaze. And then she closed her eyes. She was ready.

"I'll remember, Maddie." Sam's voice was a hoarse whisper. "I'll remember forever."

She smiled, her eyes still closed.

Shaking, Sam raised the gun, aimed for her heart and pulled the trigger. As Madison began to fall, his reflexes took over and he caught her. Holding her against him, he felt the stillness in her chest and fell to his knees as his own heart shattered into a million pieces.

Thirty minutes later, Dean came back to Madison's apartment and found Sam right where he was when he left, kneeling next to Madison's still form on the living room rug, the long fingers of his left hand laced with hers.

One thing was different, though. The room smelled of lavender and vanilla.

Dean looked more closely at Madison and saw that her skin had a dewy glow. Her legs were bare, but Sam's shirt was more than long enough for modesty. Dean had to give his brother credit. Sam obviously hadn't just been sitting there holding her hand while he was gone.

"I found the perfect spot, Sam," he announced. "About ten minutes from here on a hill overlooking the bay. It's real pretty."

Sam didn't acknowledge Dean's presence, let alone his words. He just sat looking at Madison as though she might disappear if he took his eyes off of her. Dean approached him with the same caution he'd afford a wounded bear.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice held a mixture of compassion and mild panic. This was a side of Sam he'd rarely seen.

When Jessica died—and their dad, too—Sam had been so focused on hunting down the demon that killed them that he hadn't taken time to actually grieve until weeks after the fact. For that matter, Dean hadn't either. But even then, it wasn't grieving as much as it was doing their level best to dull the pain by various methods. As often as not, Dean picked the twin painkillers of booze and sex, while Sam buried his misery in relentless research and the occasional tequila bender.

But this was different. There was no mystery to solve, no monster to punish. All the major players were known and accounted for—a girl who couldn't help what she was, and a man who couldn't help loving her. Sam had lived through it, but at the moment he looked like he wished he hadn't.

Dean couldn't stand it any longer. He moved toward Sam again, his arms open, ready to deliver a long-overdue hug, but he stopped dead at the sound of Sam's voice.

"So, I guess then we should do this before dark, huh?" Sam said, his eyes never leaving Madison's peaceful face, his voice so calm, so _normal_, it sent a chill up Dean's spine.

_That can't be good, _he thought to himself, but out loud, he said, "What?"

"The flames…they'll be more visible at night…somebody across the bay might see—"

"Oh, right. Yeah, we should do this sooner rather than later, but—"

"Her hand…it's still warm, ya know? I keep waiting for it to feel cold, but it doesn't…yet." Again with the eerie calm in his tone.

Dean knew it was all an illusion. He knew the warmth Sam was feeling was only there because he'd held her lifeless fingers in his big, warm paw every second since he'd finished cleaning her up. But Dean would rather cut out his own tongue than say that to Sam. His brother had lost enough. Let him keep his illusions for just a little while longer.

Sam leaned forward and with his right hand gently brushed a strand of Madison's chestnut hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear.

"Hey, Dean, can I ask a favor?"

"Anything, Sammy. Name it." _Get you drunk. Turn back time. Raise her from the dead. Whatever you need, bro._

"Can we find a flower shop before we take her to that spot you picked out? I need to get her some white roses." This in the same casual tone he'd use to say, 'Grab me another beer, would ya?'

Sam still hadn't looked at Dean. He continued to fuss over Madison, moving that same errant strand of her hair out from behind her ear, pausing to assess the new arrangement and then moving it back again. He smoothed the wrinkles out of his borrowed shirt, purposefully avoiding the small, dark hole in the center of her chest. There was very little blood; her heart had stopped pumping almost instantly, a trick of her werewolf physiology.

And still he held her hand.

"Not for nothin' Sam, but I thought you said roses were lame." Dean didn't want to appear insensitive, but if playing the today's-just-like-any-other-day game was Sam's way of dealing with what had happened, well, Dean was all over that.

"No, that was Jessica. Maddie told me roses are her favorite…white roses."

_Oh, God, illusions are one thing, but please don't let him be hallucinating conversations with her._

"She told you?" he repeated nervously.

"Yesterday, Dean," Sam ground out impatiently, letting his brother know he wasn't delusional. "We talked a lot, after we…uh…well, after."

Dean's curiosity nearly got the better of him, but he managed to stifle the questions running through his mind. He didn't have to understand a damn thing about those roses. Sam had his reasons and that was all that mattered. Besides, he'd already said he'd do anything Sam asked.

"I think I saw a flower shop between here and there. Yeah, sure, Sam, we'll get her roses."

Four dozen roses, to be exact, every last white rose the flower shop had.

Dean knew the count because he had pulled the petals off every one of those forty-eight thorny stems and he had the puncture wounds to prove it. He'd done the painful duty mostly because it was the only thing Sam would let him do, other than helping with the heavy lifting, which consisted of carrying Madison's body to and from the car and hauling two fallen trees together to fashion a platform for her funeral pyre. The rose petals were now on the front seat in one of the long, white boxes the flowers had come in. And Dean still had little more than a hunch as to why Sam needed them.

The wind had kicked up some since they'd arrived in the small clearing on the hillside overlooking San Francisco Bay. At the moment, it was playing havoc with the blanket Sam was trying to tuck around Madison's body. They'd carried her out of her apartment wrapped in the living room rug, which now served as a cushion between her body and the rough bark of the logs, but Sam had insisted on wrapping her in clean sheets and blankets once they'd laid her out on the pyre.

Leaning against the hood of the Impala, Dean watched as Sam succeeded in getting the last blanket secured around her feet, only to have it blown loose from around her shoulders. Then he watched the whole thing happen in reverse when Sam tried to tuck the cover back under her shoulders. On Sam's third attempt, Dean couldn't hold back any longer.

"Hey, Sam, how about we tie it down? There's some nylon rope in the trunk," Dean offered.

"I got this, Dean," Sam said, turning his attention away from the blanket just long enough to shoot a disapproving glare at his brother. Just then another gust blew through, caught the loose edge of the blanket before Sam got hold of it and whipped it off Madison entirely. Sam grabbed for it and missed. Dean watched helplessly as the red-and-black plaid blanket sailed through the air like a magic carpet. For a second or two, Dean thought it might fly out of the clearing and out to sea, but the wind died and it fluttered to the ground about ten feet from the pyre. Sam snatched it up like he was rescuing it from the mouth of hell itself.

"Dammit, Dean! See what you made me do? Now it's all messed up," Sam snarled as he shook the blanket to dislodge the few leaves and specks of dirt it picked up in its half-second stay on the ground.

Dean considered snapping back at him, but before he could form a response, Sam had turned his back and was making another attempt to arrange the blanket over Madison.

_Fine, be a mule. You think you can out-stubborn me, little brother? Guess again._

Dean walked to the back of the car, opened the trunk and took out a length of nylon rope and a knife. He didn't close the trunk, knowing the sound would alert Sam to what he was doing and then Sam would get pissed off and they'd fight and Dean didn't want to fight. He wanted to get this over with and get the hell out of this town. He wanted to get Sam far away from this town, this hunt and this girl—the sooner, the better.

Moving as quietly as he could, Dean circled behind Sam, hoping to get the blanket tied down over Madison's ankles before Sam turned around and caught him. If he could just make Sam see that it helped, he thought, maybe he'd change his mind.

And maybe it would rain pretzels and beer, but what the hell? It was worth a shot.

Unfortunately, Sam didn't see it that way. He turned around just as Dean got the first loop around Madison's ankles. He looked at the rope and then back at Dean, his eyes filled with bitter betrayal.

"No!" he yelled as his fist connected with Dean's jaw, knocking the older man over backwards.

"You are not going to truss her up like a goddamn piece of meat!" Sam roared down at him. "She deserves better than that. I know you think she was just another monster, but she wasn't. She was beautiful and brave and she died a hero and if you touch her again without my permission, I will beat you bloody!"

By the time he'd finished, Sam had gone from flat-out yelling to choking back angry tears.

"OK, Sam, I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry," Dean apologized as he sat up warily. When no further blows were forthcoming, he got to his feet. "I was just trying to get this over with, Sammy. I can see how much it's hurting you."

"No, Dean, it isn't. Don't you get it? This isn't hurting me. It's helping me. Yeah, it's painful, just like building Dad's pyre was painful, but would you have ever even considered letting someone else do it just to spare yourself the pain?"

Dean shook his head. "Not in a million years."

"Then stop trying to take this away from me, away from _her._ I took her life, Dean. Not you. This is my atonement, inadequate as it is, but it's all I can do, so I have to do it my way."

It was that dumb Lazarus Long quote all over again. Dean realized Sam wasn't looking to farm out any part of this ordeal, because that really would have made it worse for him. It was slowly dawning on Dean that just because his instincts were always to protect Sam, that didn't mean Sam always wanted protecting. Still, Dean admitted, he would gladly have taken on the whole gruesome task himself if he thought Sam had wanted to be spared one whit of the agony he was in now. And Lazarus Long could go screw himself. Obviously, the old geezer had never had a brother.

"All right, Sam. It's all yours, man. You want me to stay out of it, I'm out of it. I'll wait in the car. But if you need anything, just holler, OK?"

"Yeah, of course," Sam answered.

Dean walked back to the car, tossed the rope and the knife back into the trunk and sat down in the driver's seat. He left the door open so he could hear in case Sam called out to him. Glancing to his right, he saw the box with the rose petals inside. He lifted a handful and breathed in their soft fragrance. As he let them fall back into the box, the wind whistled through the car and blew the petals against the window. He could just imagine what would happen when Sam tried to spread the delicate things over Madison's body. It'd be like a rose petal blizzard.

Sam hadn't told him yet what significance the roses held, but he figured they had to be part of her cremation. Why else would they have bought them on the way here? Now Dean wished he'd left the petals attached to the stems. At least that way they wouldn't scatter in the wind.

He grabbed the box and got out of the car. He saw Sam using the torch to light the kindling they'd placed around the platform. As he approached the pyre, he noticed that Madison's body was completely covered by the plaid blanket, the corners of which had been secured with good-sized rocks.

_Way to go, bro. Take that, Mother Nature._

"Hey, Sam—" Dean started, intending to mention the petal problem.

"Oh, you brought the rose petals. Thanks," Sam said, taking the box from him.

"Uh, yeah, Sam, about the flowers—"

"I'll have to leave them in the box so they don't blow away," Sam said as he turned back toward the pyre, a wistful expression on his face. "It would have been cool to cover her with them; I think she'd have liked that, but it's too windy."

"Maybe you could wait 'til the wind dies down some and then sort of toss them into the flames," Dean suggested. "Not that I'm telling you what to do—"

"It's OK, Dean. Yeah, I can do that," he said. Turning to face him, he asked, "Do you want to help?"

"Uh, sure, if you want me to."

Sam took a handful of petals and held the box out to Dean so he could scoop some out, too. When the breeze faded, they both tossed their petals into the fire.

"Do you mind telling me what they're for?" Dean asked as he and Sam continued their flower ritual until the box was empty.

"To help cleanse her spirit so she can go to…a better place."

"Cleanse it how?" Dean posed, still not quite comprehending.

"White roses are a symbol of purity. There's lore that says if we burn them with her body their essence will purge any evil from her spirit," Sam answered. "I know in my heart that her spirit was never evil, that the curse never really changed that, but I owed it to her not to take any chances."

The two brothers stood silently watching the fire spread and grow until the pyre was fully involved. Dean turned to look at Sam, saw the flames reflected in the tears in his eyes and felt his heart squeeze as he thought back to the last time they'd seen someone they loved devoured by fire.

"Dad would have been real proud of you today, Sam."

When Sam didn't respond, Dean figured he was silently protesting the notion that anybody, especially their father, would be proud of him for ending Madison's life. But Dean hadn't meant it like that, so he tried to explain.

"He would have hurt like hell for you, too."

_Just like I do._

Dean still didn't look at Sam. He didn't want to see him show his disregard for their father's feelings—or his own—by rolling his eyes or shooting him a challenging glare.

"He wouldn't have told you that part, but it's true. But he would have definitely said he was proud of how strong you were for Madison, of how you're holding it together—"

The only response was the crackling of the fire.

And then, in a strained whisper, as though it hurt him to speak, he heard Sam say, "I wasn't even thinking about Dad. Or Madison. I was thinking about…about…Oh, God, Dean, I miss her so much!"

Dean turned toward Sam just in time to see his face crumple and his body begin to tremble.

"Hey bro—" was all Dean got out before Sam slumped against him, his breathing labored and his shoulders heaving. Dean didn't even try to bear up under the taller man's sagging frame; he just bent his knees and took them both to the ground.

Dean waited Sam out, his own heart skewered anew with each sob wrenched from his brother's throat. He held him until his arms ached and his legs went numb. Finally, Sam grew quiet. His breathing evened out and his head felt heavy on Dean's shoulder. Sasquatch had cried himself to sleep.

As he carefully shifted his legs out from under him in hopes of restarting the circulation in them, Dean realized that he'd been right about Sam remembering another fire. But it wasn't their dead father burning in Sam's memory; it was Jessica, burning alive before his very eyes. Dean knew Sam had nightmares about it frequently and that Sam blamed himself for Jessica's death because he'd dreamed it before it happened but hadn't taken the dreams seriously enough to warn her about it. But in the two years since that god-awful night, Dean couldn't recall Sam shedding a single tear out of pure sadness for his own loss, as if somehow his guilt took away his right to that grief.

Dean's legs felt like they were crawling with ants carrying razor blades, but if what Sam had just been through with this hunt and its fiery aftermath was what it took to finally burn down that wall in Sam's heart, if now he could move on, then Dean damn sure wasn't going to bitch about a few tingles and twinges. Hell, he'd hold him all night, if that's what it took.

Then again, six feet four inches of sound asleep Sam Winchester was heavy—_damn heavy._

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, time to wake up," Dean said, rolling his shoulder and sending Sam's head lolling forward.

Sam jerked awake like he'd just been dreaming about falling off a cliff.

"Huh? What?" Long arms flailing at some unseen peril, Sam nearly knocked Dean's block off trying to scramble away from him.

"Whoa there, Sammy," Dean soothed, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the lumbering giant again. "You just nodded off for a minute. Can't say I blame you, but we've got a fire to tend to."

Wiping the sleep and a few stray tears from his eyes, Sam got to his feet and reached to help Dean, whose legs were still a bit tingly.

"You're not gonna go all chick-flick on me again, are you?" Dean asked as he flinched away the tiniest bit. He loved his brother and all but, his earlier thoughts notwithstanding, one round of 'Let it go, man, just let it all go' was about all he could take—for this year anyway.

"No. I'm good," Sam said, sounding a lot like he meant it. He grabbed Dean's hand and hauled him up. When Dean tried to pull away, Sam held on and made like he was going to hug him again. Dean ducked, Sam yanked and Dean ended up in a headlock, staring down at Sam's size 13s.

"Dean?"

_"WHAT?"_ Being incapacitated always made Dean snappish.

"Thanks for…just now. For understanding. You're a good brother and I love you."

"You couldn't have said that without the wrestling move?" Dean griped, his gruff tone the B-side to the warmth Sam's words sent spiraling through his chest.

Sam paused like he was pondering Dean's suggestion. "Nah, don't think so," he said as he released him. "You wouldn't have accepted anything that warm and fuzzy any other way and you know it."

Dean started to argue that point and then shut his mouth. When the guy was right, he was right.

Several hours later, behind the wheel once again, Dean glanced at the man in the seat beside him. Sam's head rested against the door just below the window, eyes closed, arms hugging himself. Whether he was seeking warmth or comfort, Dean couldn't say, and he wasn't about to ask, since the steady rise and fall of Sam's broad chest told him his little brother had finally fallen into merciful slumber.

_Thank God._

At last, Dean could relax, let go of the day and its deeds, dial back his constant worry for Sam and just drive. He'd decided to head south toward Los Angeles. La-La-Land was probably good for a hunt or two. Just the thing to keep Sammy's mind focused anywhere but on that rose-covered pyre sending its oddly fragrant smoke curling against the northern California sky.

Now that San Francisco was in their rearview, Dean figured, the worst was behind them.

At least, that's what he told himself while the Impala rumbled along the dark, deserted two-lane and a moonlit parade of faded billboards and roadside diners bore silent witness to a hunter's lonely tears.

THE END


End file.
